The One to Survive
by Jacinda
Summary: They had lost Angel, Mimi, and three members of Life Support in the last year. None of them were prepare to face the possiblity of watching him die. Rated for language
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I still wish I owned RENT, but . . . even I know that isn't reality :)

Pairings: I don't know if there will be anything besides friendships even though part of me could always picture Mark and Roger together. If I do something like that, I'll give yah'll fair warning.

Roger's POV:

I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard the message on the answering machine. I was thankful, for once, that Mark was out shooting footage of people living in the subway for his documentary. On the other hand, I knew I would have to tell him. I, surely, didn't want to be the one to give him this news.

"_This message is for Mark Cohen. This is Dr. Sanchez from the department of health. We have recently been informed that one of your sexual contacts has tested positive for HIV. Please call to schedule an appointment for a blood test."_

Mark. Not Mark. Not the innocent, naïve Mark that did nothing but take care of me even when I didn't want to.

I wanted to know who did this to Mark.

Maureen. Of course, it had to have been Maureen. Mark didn't run around with woman; he spent most of his nights alone in bed. Mark didn't do smack; he barely let a drop of alcohol touch his lips. Not Mark.

"Rog, you look like you saw a ghost or something," Mark commented as he bounded into the loft obviously pleased with his footage.

"No. Sorry. Hey, do you want to go grab some supper?" I asked. Now just wasn't the time to tell him; he was happy, and we had so little to be happy about.

"I really want to start piecing together some of my footage," Mark said as he pulled that ugly striped scarf off from around his neck, "I promised Collins a documentary by the time he finishes the semester at NYU."

"What did you shoot today?" I asked as I picked up my guitar. I knew that hours, minutes, and maybe even seconds mattered in the treatment of AIDS. I just couldn't tell him . . . my best friend.

"You never care any other time. Why today?"

"Just curious why you're in a good mood."

"I ran into Gabby on the subway. Remember her . . . that hot waitress. Long brown hair, green eyes, and . . ."

"The tight ass, right?"

Gabby.

Mark and Gabby casually dated off and on since Maureen became a lesbian. Gabby was beautiful. She dropped out of NYU after being told that her creativity was a little too creative for the conservatives in the art department. Apparently, pictures of homeless women and dirty alley ways weren't in vogue right now.

She could have done this. Damn Gabby . . . damn Maureen.

"You know, I'm not going to talk to you if you are just going to ignore me," Mark grumbled.

"You should check your messages," I replied grimly.

Mark's POV:

My blood ran cold. I stood still contemplating my next step; I didn't know what to do.

Who?

Nanette Himmelfarb, Maureen Johnson, Gabby O'Neil. There weren't that many to choose from. I wasn't known to sleep around; Roger always said that I lived for my work.

"Hey, I made an appointment for you tomorrow at two," Roger said.

"Umm . . . I've got to go," I stammered as I ran out the door and down the stairs. The brisk air felt good.

"Jesus, Mark. At least put your jacket on," Roger said as he threw it at me.

God, I felt sick. I could feel my stomach churning despite the fact that I hadn't eaten anything today. The bile was acidic against my esophagus. All I could do was bend over and let my stomach empty on to the cold concrete.

Maybe I wouldn't be the one to survive.

"It's going to be okay," Roger said.

"I need to . . . I need to go somewhere," I replied as I began to walk down the street without my jacket or my scarf. I could hear Roger's footsteps not far behind. I wanted him to go away. I wanted a chance to begin to sort this out in my head.

"You aren't going to do something stupid, are you?" Roger asked.

I hadn't really thought that far ahead.

"I'm not going to pull an April," I growled. _Low blow, Mark. What a shitty way to treat your friend, I thought._

"Mark, just be careful," Roger said as his footfalls faded.

Roger's POV:

I sat on the front steps for two hours. I couldn't imagine where he would go without his jacket in forty degree weather. It was too cold. He'd catch pneumonia; that could kill him if . . .

I stood up and began to pace. I didn't know where Mark hung out besides the loft. What I good friend I was.

"I thought you would like this back," Collins said as he nearly dragged a heavily intoxicated Mark down the sidewalk.

"What the hell did he do?"

"He did ten vodka shots at the Cat Scratch Club. His skinny ass body isn't prepared to take on that much alcohol."

"Let's get him upstairs," I said as I tried to help Collins move the highly intoxicated, slightly combative Mark.

"Rog, why'd he do this to himself?" Collins asked as we struggled with the first flight of stairs.

"He might be positive."

"Mark? You're joking, right?"

"The department of health called him this afternoon."

"Christ," Collins muttered. This was far too much after losing Angel, Mimi, and three people from life support within the last year.

"I know. Who do you think did this?"

"Mark doesn't date, so unless that camera of his . . ."

"Not even mildly funny. Dammit, Mark. Pick up those big ass feet and start walking," I cursed.

"Roger, I don't feel sick," Mark slurred.

"I know."

"I think Maureen did this to me . . . Nanette Himmelfarb made me use two condoms and she used some kind of slime or something. It lasted like two minutes before she started crying and asking her father for forgiveness."

"Remind me not to date a rabbi's son," Collins replied.

"Still not funny," I replied. Only something like that could happen to Mark.

"Maureen could be a dirty slut. She cheated on me four times . . . within two weeks. I was stupid never breaking it off. I was nothing more than a big dildo to her," Mark replied as he tried to help us help him up the stairs.

"Maybe you shouldn't talk anymore," I said to Mark though I wasn't going to refute what he had said.

"I don't want to die," Mark said softly.

"I know you don't," I replied.

I didn't want him to die either.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still don't own RENT; still wish I did.

A/N: I saw the movie for the second time last night; I still like the musical better. I'm really surprised at how little money the movie has brought in. It makes me really sad that people don't seem to care about the messages the movie sends. :(

Mark's POV:

"Mark, get your ass out of bed. You have your appointment in an hour," Roger growled. It sounded vaguely familiar. He had probably tried to wake me a number of times, but I was hung over. I was very badly hung over.

I was stupid last night. I ran into Collins when I was walking around. I offered to by him a drink; I just kept drinking to make me forget that I might be slowly dying. I didn't want to die like Angel or Mimi. They were so sick; they were barely strong enough to talk. Their dark skin had turned gray. I didn't want my last moments to be like that.

Collins didn't ask what was wrong with me. For that, I would be eternally grateful, but I'm sure that Roger told him last night. I don't remember much of last night.

"I'm going to pull that skinny ass of yours out of bed if you don't get up soon," Roger threatened, "I read somewhere that you can take AZT not too long after an exposure and stop the HIV virus from making you sick. I'll get you some cereal and AZT."

"Rog, that would require me to have had sex recently. Just don't worry about it," I replied as I pulled myself to a sitting position. The world began to spin around me. My head felt like a ton of bricks, and my mouth felt like it was full of cotton.

"I am worried. It's shitty having to take dozens of pills a day. It's shittier that all my money goes to AZT, 3TC, and that other one that I can't even pronounce. I don't want you to have to live like this," Roger said softly from the doorway, "Only one sick person in the loft at a time."

"Indinavir. That's the name of your other med," I replied.

"Mark, I'll go with you. Just get out of bed and shower," Roger said as he disappeared from the doorway again.

I pulled myself to a standing position and gathered up the semi-clean clothing that I had. I could already hear the water running in the shower. I could hear Roger in the kitchen doing something. This was all wrong. I was the one that took care of Roger. He shouldn't have to take care of me.

Roger's POV:

It was the first and maybe the last time that Mark was silent. He normally jabbered about his documentary or his job working as a technical arts aid at the rich people's theatre arts school in Manhattan. I always teased him about being the poorest AV nerd in Manhattan; he was probably the only poor anything in Manhattan. Despite that, he dutifully took the subway to work every morning. Every Friday, he cashed his check and brought it home. Half of it went into a jar for rent and utilities. The rest was given to me for meds or for food.

I hated the silence.

The first time I met Mark seemed like a million years ago. He was only eighteen . . . and NYU dropout. I met him by the way of Collins. The two men hit it off instantly. Mark never knew what it was like to grow up poor, but for a scrawny, white Jewish boy he had a sense of compassion that blew me away. He believed that he could change the world . . . that he could make a film that would expose the world he came from to the world that he was currently living in. I admired that.

I was a 'rock' star. I did smack like a rock star; I had a bad attitude like a rock star. Mark changed that. After April died, he cleaned up her mess and my mess. He cleaned up the blood with a myriad of cleaning products. He single-handedly kept me clean. Mark dealt with a lot shit, but he never complained.

"I guess we're here," Mark said solemnly as we stepped off the bus only feet away from the front entrance of the health department.

"It's just a blood draw. A small tube full of blood," I replied ineptly.

"A tiny tube of blood and whatever might be growing in me," Mark replied.

True. I couldn't refute that.

"Let's just get this over with," Mark said as I held the door open for him and waved him in.

He smiled. If I had to be a goofy jackass until the results came back, I would just to make him smile.

Mark's POV:

"Joanne?" I said as we approached the clinic.

"Mark," Joanne replied obviously at the same loss of words that I was.

"Maureen?" I asked.

"Maureen," she confirmed, "She's not doing well."

"How are you doing?" I asked.

"You know. Mark, how are you?" Joanne asked as a pained expression spread across her face. It was hard to know that someone you loved had HIV. Despite how shitty Maureen treated me, I still loved her. I hated that I loved her, but that didn't make me love her any less.

"I'm okay," I replied with the bravest face I could muster.

"If she calls you, just try not to get mad. She's actually surprised that she's positive. She'd never intentionally hurt us," Joanne replied as she rested a hand on my arm.

"It would be hard not to get mad," Roger grumbled.

"Why'd she get tested?" I asked.

"We were going to go to Vermont next month to have a real commitment ceremony. She wanted you to be her bridesmaid," Joanne said as a smile briefly passed across her face.

"If you love her, you should still go to Vermont," I replied softly.

"Mark, you need to get to your appointment," Roger said as he grabbed my arm and nearly began to pull me down the hallway.

"Mark, if you ever want to talk," Joanne said.

"Same for you. Take care of our girl," I said softly.


	3. Chapter 3

Roger's POV:

He ate and slept . . . for seven days. His camera was in the corner with a thin layer of dust coating it. It was a day that I never thought I would see.

"Mark, come on. Let's go see Collins. He said we should come around," I said as I knocked on his bedroom door.

"No, I'm tired," Mark grumbled. I could hear him tossing around on his squeaky mattress.

"You've slept for nearly fourteen hours today. Get up before I come in there and wake you up," I growled suddenly losing my temper with him.

"I just want to be here. I don't want to go out," Mark yelled back losing his temper with me. I could barely remember the last time the timid Jewish boy got mad, let alone yelled.

"No, you get your ass up and stop moping. You never let me have that luxury, so I'm not going to let you either," I yelled back as I opened the door and proceeded to grab his arm and pull him into a sitting position. "Are you going to get your ass up, or should I continue?"

"You don't understand," Mark said softly. I could see the tears in his eyes.

"What don't I understand?" I asked as I relented my attack for a moment.

"Who will take care of you if I'm sick? That's my job. How can I ever look at Maureen again? I still love her . . . I think. I mean, I'm too tired to kill myself," Mark said as he lowered his head, so I couldn't see the tears that he was obviously ashamed of.

"It's not your job to take care of me. We take care of each other . . . remember, brothers," I said as I released his arm and sat at the edge of his bed, "As for Maureen, you'll look at her again. You'll probably even be her bridesmaid at some point. Life goes on, Mark. Are you going to let it go on without you?"

"When the hell did you get so wise?"

"The minute you made me clean my life up, so I could live whatever is left of it. Let's go get something to eat. You need to get out of this shit hole."

"Roger, before you go. Thanks. I'm sorry to dump this on you . . . after all that's happened to Angel and Mimi."

"It's really not your fault, Mark. We'll get through this . . . just like we got through my withdrawals," I said as I stood up and began to walk to the door.

"Christ, I don't think I could ever go through that again, moody bastard," Mark said laughing.

"At least, I'm not the one that smells like shit. Go shower," I said.

Five minutes later, I could hear the water in the shower running . . . a minute later, I heard Mark cursing at the cold water. It was almost comical, but I knew it had to be killing him. He didn't have the luxury of having a little extra blubber to keep him warm. Mark would always say that he wished that he could marry rich and get fat like Benny did.

Mark emerged in well-worn corduroy pants and a cable knit sweater, but he still looked like he was freezing. His head was wet. He looked pasty and sick. I began to wonder if Mark was really sick.

"Lesson number one: Dry your hair before you catch pneumonia or something," I replied.

"I've never dried my hair. It's a girlie thing," Mark replied as he sat on the couch opposite me.

"Then you should be damn good at it. Mimi . . . she left her hair dryer here before . . .," I began, "Just go use it."

"Fine. You better decide where we are going to eat," Mark grumbled as he got up and went back into the bathroom.

I gingerly picked up the camera from the corner. I was going to make him film something today. He needed to start living just in case he would be forced to start dying.

Mark's POV:

"This is really good, Roger," I said despite the fact that I was visibly trying to keep my stomach contents down.

"You should have gotten something with more fat in it. It isn't like you couldn't handle a few more calories," Roger replied as he ate his sandwich.

"I just don't feel too well," I replied.

"I hope you feel well enough to go visit Joanne and Maureen. They called while you were drying your hair," Roger replied with a smirk.

"I'm not ready."

"She's dying, Mark. Maureen is going to die at some point. If you love her as much as you claim, you should start spending time with her."

"But to look her in the face and wonder who did this to her . . . and if she did this to me. It's too soon."

"Too soon or not. You're going," Roger replied with a satisfied look on his face.

I knew it didn't pay to start arguing with him. It would have been futile to say the least. Part of me might have even known that he was right. I, however, would never admit that to Roger's face.

Roger's POV:

He became silent the moment we got on the bus to go across town. I hated the bus; I hated what it did to Mark. He swallowed nervously; he looked like at any moment he could get sick. I knew he needed to do this; I didn't want him to make the same mistakes that I had. God, I had made so many.

Upon ringing the doorbell to the brick townhouse, Joanne threw herself into Mark's arms. She nearly knocked him over. She was negative; Joanne said the telephone call came just a few minutes earlier. She was negative; Mark was in limbo. It didn't seem all that fair.

Mark smiled a hollow smile; he cried tears that looked more like they were painful rather than joyful. Joanne kissed his cheek and pulled us into the brownstone.

Maureen wore a loose fitting t-shirt and worn jeans. Her hair was pulled back conservatively; her face was paler than I had ever seen it. It surely wasn't the sparkling, diva that I had known for years. She looked sick; in a lot of ways, she looked a lot like Mark did.

"Hey," Maureen said nervously to no one in particular.

"Hey," Mark and I replied lamely.

"I'm so sorry," Maureen said as she disintegrated into tears, "Mark, I'm so sorry. Did you get your results?"

Mark said nothing. He pulled the crying woman into an embrace. He looked startled when she violently pushed him away.

"Don't touch me. I'm poison. Can't you see I'm poison?" Maureen hissed before running out of the room with Joanne hot on her heels.

Mark sat on the couch. He looked confused, lost, hurt . . . maybe even a little angry. I could see the tears building in his eyes. I sat down next to him.

"I'm mad at Joanne. I'm mad at Maureen. I feel like I'm poison, too," Mark replied in a voice completely devoid of emotion, "I feel like I'm a horrible person."

"You aren't a horrible person. I hated April for a long time. I still hate the Man. Maybe this was too soon for you and Maureen," I replied following a long sigh.

"I'm sorry about Maureen. Mark, are you okay?" Joanne asked as she sat next to him. She drew him into an embrace; she held him close to her. She told him it was okay to cry. Joanne said that she did a lot of crying because so many things were making her hurt.

"Mark, it's okay. She still loves you; I think there's even this crazy part of me that loves you. We're family," Joanne said softly, "Maureen is madder at herself than she is you or me."

"I know. I just never thought that . . . I never thought that after Angel and Mimi died . . . I never thought that I could hurt this much," Mark rambled, "I'm sick of all this shit. Why can't the world just slow down for a minute?"

"I don't know," I replied.

"You should go home and wait by the phone. I'm sorry, Mark. I'm sorry this afternoon was a disaster," Joanne said.

"Maureen has never been anything short of a hurricane," Mark replied with a smile.

"You'll call, right?" Joanne said as she helped a tired looking Mark off the couch.

"I'll call," Mark said as we left the brownstone.


	4. Chapter 4

Mark's POV:

It was the same nightmare I always have . . . lately.

'_So you think I'm beautiful,' Maureen says. She's high on marijuana. She's dancing around the loft like a belly dancer. It's sexy. She's sexy. _

'_You are beautiful. Come here,' I reply as I am much less inhibited when I'm high. I'm also much less inhibited when Roger is at one of his gigs. It's just me and Maureen . . . beautiful, sexy, dangerous Maureen._

_She does as told, which is miraculous when I remember it was Maureen. I run my fingers through her wavy brown hair. She lets me kiss her jaw line. She savagely kisses me back; Maureen kisses me like she needs me. I know that's a farce; she's probably already been with someone else today. She does not need a geeky filmmaker. I know that. It doesn't matter right now._

_Her hands creep all over my body. Clothes are carelessly discarded; flesh meets flesh. Her pale skin is dark compared to mine. Maureen's lips are swollen and pink from her arsenal on my face._

_She takes me into her mouth. It's been ages since I've had sex. I don't think anyone has ever taken the time to give me a good blow job; Maureen seems satisfied that she is making me moan. She seems to enjoy her ability to bring me to the brink and then pull me back. I'm her toy, and right now she wants to play with me._

The rest isn't so clear.

_She lowers herself onto me. Our bodies move together in a savage rhythm. She screams someone's name; I like to think that it is mine, but I'm a realist. Then, we lay on the couch . . . our savagery gives way to something softer. _

_I hold her close to me. I listen to her breath as she falls asleep. It's beautiful. It's at that moment that I am certain I love her._

I woke up gasping for breath; the condom was missing from my dream . . . that is if there was ever one to begin with. No fucking condom. How could I have been so stupid?

"Mark, it's okay. It was just a dream," Roger says as he places a cool cloth on my forehead, "It's okay. I'm here."

"I'm a mess. I just had a dream about having sex with Maureen," I replied, "Only it wasn't the good kind of dream. My mind is replaying these reels in my head . . . trying to figure out when it could have happened."

"Okay, just don't tell me about having sex with her. I ate today," Roger replied with a smile.

"I'm serious. I remember getting stoned with her. I remember us having sex, but I don't remember if we used a condom or not," I said as I tried to search my memory for any clue.

"When the hell were you getting stone?" Roger asked suddenly becoming extremely mad.

"It was like five months before you tested positive. It was just some pot," I replied. The scenario was so much like the first time my parents caught me doing pot in high school. Roger was less likely than my parents to only ground me for a week. He was much more likely to kick my ass . . . verbally or physically.

"Just some pot? Didn't you see what I was going through? Dammit," Roger cursed.

"Can we not do this now?" I asked as I rubbed my temples, "Did the department of health call yet?"

"They did. You need to call them back this afternoon, you stupid stoner," Roger replied with a smile.

"I quit at the same time you did, moody bastard," I replied as I pulled myself to the edge of the bed.

"Okay, go call," Roger said as he stood up and left the room. I heard him grumble something about me being a stoner. It made me laugh; never did I think Roger Davis would be the one to lecture me on drug use.

Roger's POV:

I watched him dial the number I wrote on the wall. He fidgeted nervously as he made his way through the automated menu. Mark turned his back to me, so I couldn't see. I mindlessly strummed my guitar as I waited.

"Umm . . . sure. I guess I can do that. An appointment in three days. Thank you," Mark said politely to whoever answered his call.

My blood ran cold. An appointment . . . that could only mean. I shook my head and pretended that the results were different than I thought.

"Rog," Mark said as he slumped down on the couch.

"Mark," I replied. I wished he would tell me. You know, get over the hell over with.

"I'm negative," Mark said as a smile spread across his face.

"But you have an appointment," I replied.

"I have an iron deficiency. I'll have to take some pills and eat more meat. The appointment is just to see if I need to get a blood transfusion or not. No big deal," Mark replied.

"You should really eat more," I replied.

"Yes, mom," Mark said sarcastically.

"I'm glad you're not . . ."

"I'm sorry you are. We should celebrate my iron deficiency. Let's go get Collins. I'm sure he has his hands into something they aren't supposed to be in."

"I am not standing on the corner and playing my guitar while you two morons sing Italian love songs. That just wasn't cool."

"It was fun."

"It was fun."

"You think things will go back to normal?" Mark asked.

"I don't think they should. I don't need you to be my caretaker. Remember . . . brothers," I replied as I punched him in the shoulder.

"You should really bring your guitar . . . what Jewish songs do you know? I would at least know the words to those," Mark said as he bounced off the couch and gathered up his jacket and scarf.

"It would be better than _the moon hitting your eye like a big infected sty_. That just isn't right, my friend," I said as I stood up and packed up my guitar despite my better judgment.

"I don't know the words to love songs . . . never really needed to."

"It speaks volumes about your love life," I said as I followed him down the stairs.

"Oh, Roger . . . will you teach me?" Mark joked as he batted his eyelashes.

"Never."

I couldn't have been happier.

FIN


End file.
